


Living in a Pseudonym State

by snowdarkred



Category: West Wing
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Writing & Publishing, American Politics, Angst, Character Study, Gap Filler, Gen, Pets, Writers, Writing, decompression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-12
Updated: 2012-01-12
Packaged: 2017-10-29 09:35:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/318448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowdarkred/pseuds/snowdarkred
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Orange County, Sam disappears for a while. (Or, in which Sam goes off the rails a little bit, rescues a giant Godzilla dog, and writes a lot of questionable sci-fi novels.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Living in a Pseudonym State

**Author's Note:**

> I had some Sam feelings tonight, so I wrote this quickly as I could before I had the chance to talk myself out of it. Forgive me if there are any mistakes.
> 
> In other news, Josh and Sam's relationship continues to fascinate me.

 

 

Sam writes under a pseudonym after he crashes and burns in Orange County. He opens his laptop in the middle of the night and pours out his demons. He spares no regard to sentence structure or flow or any of the dozen other things speech writers have ingrained in their souls. This isn’t a speech. This is him.

The nights are the rushes of fury, the shivers of fear, the rawness of disaster. He transmutes, changes, and shapes everything his is onto the page. His experiences transposed into pixels. 

The days are for tempering. He slogs through the pages, separating sentences into paragraphs, adding punctuation and propositions, and when he reaches the end, he scrolls to the top and starts again. 

He pares down everything to the bare bones. Every bit of him, striped raw in the frankest of language.

 

\---

 

After he crashes and burns in Orange County, he moves out of the hotel and into a relatively decent studio apartment in Temecula. The apartment is tiny, but Sam makes it work. He’s used to that. Plus, he’s picked a nice city, with a population of 100,097 according to the last census data. Minuscule when compared to the 599,657 in DC or the 8,008,278 million in New York City.  

Sam sets himself up as a smalltime consultant and lawyer for local businesses. One of his favorite clients, and the longest one, is Victoria Marsh. He meets her when he wanders into her tiny bookshop, bored and unemployed. After light conversation turns into a two hour consult on the subject of her supplier’s negligence, Sam finds himself agreeing to take her case. She’s a very persuasive woman, that Victoria Marsh. 

After double-checking that he can, in fact, still practice law in the state of California, he takes the supplier to court and cleans his clock. 

Business is good after Victoria puts in a good word with him at the various antique stores and corner markets around town. He undercharges a bit, but as long as he can keep himself clothed, housed, and fed, he doesn’t mind. 

He’s building a new life. Taking a break from politics for a while. Expanding his horizons. 

 

\---

 

He acquires a dog. He’s driving back from court after handing the slimy ambulance-chaser the plaintiff had hired his ass and then some, when he sees a small white bundle on the side of the road. Something about it triggers an alarm in his memory, and he finds himself pulling over before he’s conscious of the decision. 

It’s night, and it’s hard to see, but he makes out the huddle shape of a puppy laying in the dirt. It’s winter; temperatures are dropping, and for a moment, Sam’s not even sure if the poor thing is already dead. But then it breaths and whimpers, and Sam picks it up -- once again without consciously coming to a decision. He wraps the dirty puppy in the blanket he keeps in the backseat at Victoria’s insistence. You never know when you might need one, she told him. Now he’s glad he listened. 

Sam gets the puppy to the nearest animal hospital, where he’s told that he, as it turns out, is underfed and malnourished but is otherwise healthy. They also tell him that the bill is more than he should feel comfortable spending on a dog.

He does it anyway, and while he’s at it, he also sets up an appointment to have him spayed and signed up for pet insurance. 

“What’s the name?” the cute veterinary assistant asks as she fills out the paperwork. 

“Forster,” he answers after some thought. He rubs his hands over the clean white fur of his new companion. “What do you think?”

The veterinary assistant smiles at him. “I think it’s cute.”

She writes her phone number on the back of the appointment card with a wink.

 

\---

 

One quick stop at a pet shop later and Sam is home with his new puppy and three bags of supplies. He surveys the space. He looks at his dog. He looks at the size of his dog’s paws. He looks at the space. 

It’s going to be a tight fit.

 

\---

 

He starts _writing_ writing because he loves it. It’s not the kind of writing he’s used to, it’s not the kind that he really loves, but it fits into his new life. He doesn’t need an astounding orator to breathe life into his words; he can do that on his own. He writes fiction because he can, because it’s a stark departure from his previous work. In college he’d taken some creative writing courses, naturally, but they were just a pleasant distraction from the grindstone. 

It’s different, now.

Now there’s blood in his head. Gunfire and screams. There’s the President of the United States making them chili in the kitchen. There’s CJ striding through the halls, Leo’s fond smile, Josh’s wild hair. There’s so much more life to tell about, so many more emotions to manage. He is more than academics now. He is a man changed.

He reads his work aloud to Forster, but his dog is hardly up to giving him constructive criticism. After some internal debate, he hands a copy over to Victoria the next time he passes near her shop. 

 

\---

 

Unknown to him, she gives it to a friend, who gives it to a friend, who happens to be a book agent with an eye for unusual talent. 

 

\---

 

The knock on his door sends Forster into a fit of barking. Sam scolds the dog uselessly, praying that his landlord isn’t around. There have been a number of complaints about how much damn noise his dog makes, and Sam doesn’t want to get kicked out. Forster finally cuts off and switches to a low growl. It shouldn’t be threatening but…. Whoever or whatever his parents were, he clearly comes from a mix of huge breeds. He’s only been with Sam for a month and he’s gained fifteen pounds and several inches of height. Sam’s adopted the doggy Godzilla. 

Sam answers the door to find Victoria and an unfamiliar woman on his landing.

“Sam,” Victoria says in her worst mothering tone. “Aren’t you going to let us in?”

“Of course,” Sam says automatically. He stands aside, making sure to plant his leg in front of Forster. His guests come in.

“Sam,” the unfamiliar woman says. She holds out her hand and shakes his warmly. “I’m Francisca Pond.”

“That’s quite a name,” Sam says as his mind supplies the meaning. Fransisca, noun; a throwing axe used as a weapon during the Early Middle Ages by the Franks. Interesting.

“I have quite a family,” she smiles. Forster sneaks around Sam’s legs and sniffs at her shoes. He grins and sits, panting happily up at the visitors. 

“What brings you here today?” Sam asks. “Has something happened?”

“No, nothing like that,” Victoria assures him. She motions for him to sit on his own couch. “Ms. Pond here is a literary agent.”

Sam blinks. “Okay?”

“I read your short story,” Ms. Pond says. She reaches inside her messenger bag and pulls out a familiar packet of paper. It’s obviously been read multiple times, and one of the top pages has a coffee stain on it. 

“I’m going to ignore the fact that I didn’t give you my short story and instead ask why that brings you to my doorstep?” He waits expectantly. Forster totters over and sits next to him, a big white fluff-ball with too big feet and pointy teeth.

“Have you ever wondered what it would be like to have your work read by millions?” Ms. Pond asks, and Sam nearly breaks down into hysterical laughter on the spot.

 

\---

 

He writes under the name L.S. Reason as a joke to himself. He writes truth masked as fiction: a President of a dystopia unravels the puppetry around him and brings justice to the people with the help of his senior staff. A shooting tears apart a nation. Political dramas set in fantasy courts and battle-scarred spaceships. He sells moderately well. Well enough that he lets most of his clients go and starts writing full time. 

It’s not the kind of writing he’s used to, not the kind he really loves, but it fits into his new life. 

 

\---

 

Matt Santos runs for President. Josh is behind him, standing at his side. Turning him into a national figure. Turning him to the President of the United States.  

Sam watches from his couch, Forster’s giant head resting on his thigh. His latest book is another political thriller, this one about a man who leaked state secrets to save three lives. 

 

\---

 

He’s expecting it when Josh knocks on his door. He’s been expecting it since he first heard that Josh had chosen a candidate. He turns the knob and finds Josh Lyman staring back at his expectantly, that same stupid smile on his face as he had when he’d heard Governor Bartlet speak.

Sam motions for Josh to come in. There’s an awkward pause as Josh takes in Sam’s living arrangements.

“What are you doing with your life, man?” Josh asks finally. He motions at Sam’s tiny apartment, his secondhand couch, and his huge dog. Sam knows what he sees: A former Senior White House Official living like a poor college student when he could be making millions in the private sector. Sam doesn’t care. 

“Living,” Sam says in his driest tone. 

“I see,” Josh says doubtfully.

“It’s nice,” Sam says slowly. “I like it here.” Forster’s ears perk up at his tone, and he heaves his massive body into a standing position. He lowers his head and steps forward threateningly, a hundred and thirty pounds of protective muscle, reading to spring at the slightest provocation. Josh, sensibly, steps back. 

“I can give you something better,” Josh presses. He holds out a flier with Santos’s picture on it, like Sam hasn’t seen him a thousand times since the rumors of Josh’s choice began seeping through the internet. 

“I don’t give a damn about Santos,” Sam snaps. 

“Then come back for me,” Josh says earnestly. “Come back for us. In four years, in eight, we can run, you and me.” He steps forward, looking Sam straight in the eyes. “Come work for the President.”

Sam thinks about writing science fiction novels that sell decently but don’t fill the hole in his creativity. He’s law books are gathering dust in boxes. He doesn’t get recognized when he goes out to eat, and when he does, it’s as “that guy who lost.” 

Sam likes his life here. It’s nice. It’s simple. He has friends, a few remaining clients, an agent. He writes books that people read and enjoy. Every once in a while, he’ll drop in on Victoria, and she’ll make him sign a few copies of whatever’s come in. 

It’s not him.

“I want to make it clear,” Sam says, folding his arms into a familiar position of petulance, “that my dog comes with me.”

Josh whoops, dropping his serious facade and flinging his arms around Sam. Forster barks happily as Sam returns it. 

**Author's Note:**

> Charles Dickens is Sam's favorite author. John Forster was Dickens' friend and biographer. L.S. Reason is an anagram of Sam's full name; the L and S stand for Lame and Subnormal. Lame Subnormal Reason.


End file.
